


Just call this what it is, we don't pretend it's real

by heavensfallingaroundus



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Infidelity, M/M, Richard's a right dick in this, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 02:00:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20250316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: Wonder what we could be living in another lifeCatch us in the mirror, and it looks a lot like love





	Just call this what it is, we don't pretend it's real

**Author's Note:**

> Good evening.
> 
> You know how I mulled that last chapter of _Patience_ over for approximately three bloody weeks? Yeah? Well, forget that, 'cause this is absolutely nothing like it.  
This one has come to me in a flurry of frustration at not posting (I'm working on a _massive_ new longfic, that has simply not left me alone for the past two weeks--which already feel like four bloody lifetimes).  
I've obviously been massively aided by Bastille and their amazing music and lyrics. This is completely based off _Another Place_, which my beautiful friend has sent me today, and which has haunted me all day long.  
Please let me clarify that I obviously don't know these men and I'm absolutely not implying that Richard has _actually_ been unfaithful to Brandon. I'm just fucking around, as always, and music just constantly inspires me.
> 
> Needless to say, this is unbeta-ed, has been re-read only a few times, and I'm 99% sure it's a complete piece of garbage. 
> 
> Massive shoutout to Niki and Lauralee for reading this before anybody else tonight, and actually making me believe they liked it. This is love, people. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_I am bound to you with a tie that we cannot break_

_With a night that we can't replace_

_I'm lost but found with you, in a bed that we'll never make_

_It's a feeling we always chase_

When Richard first kisses Taron, it’s incandescent. The sensation burns through his mouth and face and brain, spreading all the way down his body and setting every fibre of his being alight.

It’s chaste, and then it’s not. It’s tentative, then immediately confident. It’s safe, and so very dangerous.

It’s Richard, all over him for the cameras, and still all over him when the cameras are finally turned off.

It’s Taron while they’re rolling, fighting to avoid losing control completely, and Taron behind closed doors, working his vocal chords at something much more enjoyable than singing.

It starts one hot summer night, and it never seems to stop after that.

It’s practically all they do, these days. Every occasion, every setting, every time of the day is as perfect as any other—killing time in-between takes, drinking together on endless July evenings, driving around in Richard’s Jaguar, dancing to obscure drum-and-bass in a dark club in North London.

They don’t talk about it. Richard is constantly hiding behind a mask of coyness, and Taron finds he doesn’t really have the right words at any given time. He takes it as a sign of destiny that he should just be silencing each and every voice in his head screaming that this is just textbook _trouble_, and he decides to just selfishly roll with it, because, well, it’s become _irreplaceable_. They’re both grown men, and they know what they want—to get to know each other as intimately as they can manage. And that’s it.

Or, at least, that’s what Taron actually tries to make himself believe for a while.

_I could write a book about the things that you said to me on the pillow_

_And the way you think, and how you make me feel_

_You can feel my mind and move my body with the fiction, fantasies_

_Just call this what it is, we don't pretend it's real_

They haven’t seen each other in two full months when their eyes meet across a crowded room at the Globes after party in Los Angeles. One second, they’re hugging in a haze of fizzy champagne and the glimmering gold of the heavy statuette in Richard’s hand. The next, Richard is pressing Taron against a hotel bedroom door and ripping his expensive shirt open. And it all floods back at once, then—_muscle memory_, Taron believes they call it.

Annoyingly, Richard’s phone just won’t stop buzzing. Taron knows the man just won an award, he is aware his phone’s bound to turn into a hotline, and he’s actually quite flattered that Richard has decided to just say a big fuck-off to everybody wanting to stroke his ego—to spend time making love to him, instead. Only problem is, the phone is not flashing up with hundreds of different names and faces at once. Only texts and calls from one particular number have been filtered to come through. It’s an American number, and there’s a picture attached to it. A twentysomething, bright-eyed man, a sweet smile on his face—a bedroom selfie.

_Brandon_

The screen won’t stop flashing, the vibration won’t stop shaking through discarded cufflinks and fancy watches on the bedside table, and Richard won’t stop ignoring all of it. Taron briefly considers asking the question, but Richard is on his knees and dishevelled and _gorgeous_ and unzipping Taron’s trousers with his _teeth_, so Taron resolves to just reach a hand out and turn the blasted thing off once and for all.

Richard says the word _mine_ a lot. When he’s kissing the inside of Taron’s thighs, when he’s taking him from behind, when they’re climaxing in unison. It’s familiar and warm and _true_, as far as Taron is concerned—he just wishes it actually went both ways. Taron expects that the number of unanswered calls and texts on Richard’s phone tomorrow morning will probably be the judge of that.

No-one has ever made Taron feel like Richard does, and he half-expects no-one ever will again. He still has not quite managed to pinpoint why, but his heart breaks a little at the thought of it.

_So lie to me tonight and pretend 'til the morning light_

_And imagine that you are mine_

_'Cause when the sun will rise with the truth coming out your eyes_

_We'll be good in another life_

They’re in London, this time, and it’s the BAFTAs, and it’s Jamie Bell buzzing like an excited child around the pair of them. There’s a photoshoot, and they all look like the motherfucking king’s men, and literally every single head in the room turns when they’re finally finished and allowed to step into the after party.

Jamie is just a _blast_, the innuendos flowing in a stream that is possibly even more relentless and delicious than the potent aged Scotch they’re having tonight—but when he excuses himself to make a phone call to his wife, well, that’s when it all goes horribly wrong.

That’s when Richard thinks he can afford to pull Taron to one side and whisper into his ear. That’s when Richard says something that Taron can’t quite grasp for a few seconds, but which sure sounds a lot like _I miss you every second of every day. _When their eyes meet again, Taron reads the words _be mine tonight _into deep blue, and finds he is absolutely bloody done for, and it’s not even 11 P.M.—but surely Jamie will understand, won’t he?

They’re in a taxi in less than ten minutes, and Richard is grabbing Taron’s hand in the dark, and Taron just wishes they were kissing, right now, but Richard is on his bloody _phone_, and he’s texting away, one-handed. Taron gets a glimpse of his lock-screen, and his heart shatters into a million pieces.

The night flashes by, and Taron cries every time he comes, and Richard holds him tightly, possessively, and actually fucking says _I love you_ about half a dozen times, which only makes it so much worse.

Taron wants to tell him to shut up, that he knows it’s not true, that he knows about _Brandon_—the entire _world_ does, in fact, and they seem to have very strong opinions about it, too. He _wants_ to say all these things, but all his brain manages to conjure up in response are only four words, and they hurt like he’s being scorched by a live flame, because he's made it oh so _real_ now, and that just is the most excruciating of realisations. _I love you too_.

When the sun comes up, they make love again. It’s slow and it’s deliberate and it’s the most amazing sex Taron’s ever had in his life. Fitting, really, since it’s most likely the very last time they ever got to do this.

Taron gets in and out of the shower, and he has just gotten into his big fluffy bathrobe and started towelling his hair when he hears a familiar voice come in from outside the bathroom. The brogue in Richard’s voice is much less prominent, but it rings bright nonetheless, and it’s saying _baby_ quite too many bloody times. _Can’t wait to get home to you_ is also something that comes out of Richard’s mouth, and Taron doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

They actually _kiss_ goodbye, because Taron hasn’t yet managed to say his piece. Not this time, at least. He does wonder whether he will ever be able to get it all out. For the moment—Richard’s lips on his, Richard’s hand caressing his cheek, the answer seems to be a strong _no_.

_So don't make promises to me that you're gonna break_

_We only ever wanted one thing from this_

_Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away_

_We only ever wanted one thing from this_

Taron’s on a private jet to New York, because that’s just how he rolls these days. He doesn’t even really want to go to the damned Gala, but everyone keeps telling him it’s an _honour_ and it’s _the Met,_ _dahling_, and he’ll get to peacock in _custom Ferragamo_, and for a second he’s temped to stop and think _where’s the harm in that, really_. He does, of course, know what the underlying reason for the glam occasion feeling like a punch in the gut actually is, and its name is Richard Madden.

Photos of Richard and Brandon have been everywhere on the internet for weeks, now, and it’s hard, so bloody hard, when the bloke in the stupid perfect hair just turns up and smiles and kisses his cheek over a cup of coffee, and just asks him about his flight like it’s not been two months since they last saw each other, two months since Richard said _stuff_ to Taron, and Taron said it all back to him.

It’s almost like Brandon does not exist, then, and Richard’s aura is just there, shining silver, enveloping Taron, and it seems only natural that they end up in Richard’s hotel room, and their clothes are gone in half a heartbeat, and Richard is claiming Taron back, and he’s saying he _loves_ _him_ again and again, and they’re kissing idly on the bed right after, and Richard’s fucking _phone_ is buzzing on the nightstand, and this time he actually rolls off Taron and picks it up, and goes out on the balcony to talk.

Taron knows perfectly well what this means. None of this is healthy—for Taron or Richard alike. Plus, as much as he bloody hates thinking about it, there’s a whole fucking humongous point to hastily getting dressed and up and away from the snazzy suite, and that point is _Brandon_.

It’s always been Brandon. As much as Richard likes to kid himself it’s not, it really, really is. Even if Taron was there first, even if they actually thought it could work, for a while, Taron is most definitely not the one Richard has chosen. This has been going on long enough, and now, today, it’s finally over. They’ll walk the carpet, they’ll talk the necessary talk, they’ll probably take a selfie for the fans—_Rocketman_ is still most definitely happening, after all—but that is just _it_.

He can’t help but wonder, though, whether things could have gone any differently, had Richard never met Brandon.

Had Taron and him stayed close after wrapping on the bloody movie.

Had they had the guts to get those words out sooner.

_Oh, in another place_

_In another time, what could we have been?_

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this has done it for at least one person who cruises through my dark corner of the Archive.  
If it has, feel free to let me know how much you liked/hated it.  
I love y'all.


End file.
